The Truth
by Kurissyma san Tybalt
Summary: "It's not fair to make me live without him" "I know" JohnLock, post Reichenbach. Warning: attempted suicide. Oneshot.


All his life John had been one part of a bigger whole. He'd forged himself in football teams and college clubs, army regiments and worker's unions. And year-by-year he shuffled, with head bowed, from one identity to the next, as if in fear of those brief interludes of self-identity in which he might be recognised as an individual. As John Watson, the man.

But Sherlock had changed all that. He took John into his home and his practice and he made them a pair: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Two of a kind.

When John wrote his blog now that was how he saw himself. No longer was he one doctor in a hospital of hundreds, or one soldier in a regiment of thousands. He was simply one: _the_ doctor who accompanied Sherlock Holmes, the only doctor who would _ever_ accompany Sherlock Holmes. And to Sherlock Holmes, he may as well have been the only doctor anywhere.

For Sherlock, with a mental hard-drive so full to bursting, there was only room to store the most important names, the most important people. Without even realising, John had let himself become one of them.

So what had anyone expected?

When Sherlock died—when Sherlock _killed himself_—what did anyone expect John Watson to do?

How could they expect him to go back to being one doctor, one soldier, one man in millions, when he had been _extraordinary_ in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes?

How could they expect him to go to work every day, to sit in an office in St Bartholomew's and tell people whether they were going to live or die, when with Sherlock he had saved people and killed them—not with a drug, but with his own hands?

How could they expect him to do anything at all, when twenty floors up remained the very spot from which his best friend had plunged to his death?

No amount of hugs and kisses, therapist appointments, or lovingly baked treats could ever erase from his mind the thought that—every time he stepped into the elevator—today might be the day he rode the extra twenty floors up. Today might be the day he found himself once again, with Sherlock Holmes.

When John finally does take the elevator up to the roof there's no particular reason why. It is not yet the anniversary of Sherlock's death, it isn't his birthday—John hasn't had any worse a morning than usual. In fact, it's hardly a conscious decision at all. The movement of John's hand toward the button is like a sigh. He watches the number flash blue beneath his finger and it is almost a surprise, as if his mind hasn't yet registered the intention—'Oh. Shall it be today then?' 'Why not. Today's as good as any.'

Stepping out into the cool London air is like the first puff of a cigarette—a sharp and sudden relief you knew you'd been craving, but you had no idea how much. The wind, heightened by the altitude, sent a rush through John's veins, and as he moved to stand by the edge of the roof he wondered if this was how Sherlock felt. So free, so ready, so… thankful that it was all about to end.

Perhaps it would have been easier if that were true. If John _knew_ with any real certainty how Sherlock had felt in that moment before he fell. Had he felt guilty? When he called, he'd said it was an apology.

"_It's all true."_

But that was nonsense. Sherlock didn't apologise. Not for test tubes on the table, not for severed heads in the fridge, and certainly not for this.

"_Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up…"_

Sherlock never shut up either. Even in death, all John could hear was his voice.

"_It's all true."_

What was true? Never that rubbish in the paper, never Moriarty's goddamn lies. What was the truth? _What was the truth_ that Sherlock had wanted him to understand?

That question had been all that kept him going the past few months. This was Sherlock. There had to be a clue, didn't there? There had to be some sort of message. Something only John would understand—if he ever figured it out. But Sherlock had jumped, he definitely had, and John had run, and the bike—the bike had come out of nowhere—and suddenly he was on the ground. Suddenly they were _both_ on the ground. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

And now here John was again, standing in the exact spot where Sherlock had stood, looking down at the street below from that exact same angle.

"It's all true," he whispered, testing out the words on his lips. "It's all true…"

Below, men and women continued to scurry by unaware, most of them with their heads down—buried in mobile phones and day planners, or simply staring down at the pavement beneath their feet. Nobody was looking up, why should they?

And what was the truth? What had Sherlock wanted him to see that day…? John closed his eyes…

But it was no use. It never was. And now, standing here, on the roof of St Bart's it seemed like such an easy thing to do to just _step off_. To step forward off the ledge and let it all fly past him. To finally let go and stop searching for an answer…

Maybe he'd even find one, then—an answer—in that split second before he hit the ground. Maybe he'd feel what Sherlock had felt. Maybe he'd finally understand…

But a hand caught John's arm before he could make the step, and he felt his heart sink down into his stomach at the thought of what would surely come next. The sad looks, the pity, the time off work—his only distraction. Maybe he'd even be admitted as a patient himself… Keeping his eyes closed, John spoke quietly, not yet ready to turn and face the unfortunate soul who had come upon his near-attempt.

"It's not fair to make me live without him," he whispered, and the hand on his arm squeezed ever so slightly tighter.

It was man's hand—so it wasn't Molly. Another doctor, more likely. Out for a smoke. It amazed John that people could still do such simple things…

His head dropped, he choked back a sob and the hand on his arm ran firmly yet gently down to his waist, to be joined by another on the opposite side. Guided by these hands around his waist, John stepped backwards off the ledge and breathed in deeply, falling across a solid chest and a rapidly beating heart.

"It's not fair," John muttered more roughly now as he opened his eyes.

And as he turned his head, finally, to face the man behind him, Sherlock said, "I know."


End file.
